Who Knows the Man?
by Yorkshire Pudding
Summary: A Muggle who Lupin meets during his stay at an Italian university thinks he actually knows Lupin when, as he struggles to learn, he’s barely scratched the surface. RemusSirius


Title: Who Knows the Man?

Author: Yorkshire Pudding

Summary: A Muggle who Lupin meets during his stay at an Italian university thinks he actually knows Lupin when, as he struggles to learn, he's barely scratched the surface.

Notes: Unfortunately for me (thought probably a blessed occurrence for them) I don't own Harry Potter, which means I am merely speculating about the "missing years" of Remus' life. Also – math me not happy, so don't be surprised when I say things like "eight years ago" and you know for a fact that it's impossible. Go with the flow, man. Lastly – this entire fic is the result of reading The Real Life of Sebastian Knight by Vladimir Nabakov in one day. That means that this is an untrustworthy narrator with his (or her, I never was clear, isn't that fun?) agenda and you have to watch out for that. I would say hijinks ensue, but that's for you to determine.

The important thing is to know that I don't judge them, I just expose them for what they are and, occasionally, explain what is not clear. That's all. I never judge. I take the facts for what they are and I make nice little lists and categories and then I give you the fruits of my labor and you understand. That's what this is about. Understanding. It's not clear yet, but it will be.

I met Remus in an odd way. Like the people who matter always do, he just seemed to appear out of nowhere. One minute he was not there and everything was in its place, and then he appeared out of nowhere. I don't mean that in the trashy-romance-novel sort of way. I didn't just not see him approach. He appeared. I was watching that spot on the wall across the street over the head of the man trying to sell me a newspaper, and there was a stone that was a different color. That's why I was looking at it, I remember. It had a sort of bluish tint, like the bricks in Germany do, and not at all blessed with that reddish, homey tint that all the other Italian bricks around it had. I was staring at it, and then he blocked my view. He didn't move into the way, he just appeared in front of it. I told him that later and he laughed shyly.

Nothing about him would have attracted my attention. He just wasn't that type. Blends in with crowds, you know the type. I think he does it on purpose. He's such a strong presence when you know him, but you could just walk by him on the street if you didn't. You'd never look twice. I could picture him practicing it in front of a mirror, but the image makes me laugh too much to keep it up very long. Maybe its natural, though. Maybe he just never looked for attention much.

However, he was standing where I had been looking, so I kept looking. The man with the newspaper raised his voice a little, but I still didn't even bother to look at him. Remus had a thick book in his hands, bound in leather. I've always liked books bound in leather. They have more personality. I couldn't tell what the title was from where I was, but I bet it was something brilliant. Remus always had three books at any given time that he hadn't finished quite yet, but give him a week. They were all at different stages of un-read and overlapped into each other. Once, he accidentally called Machiavelli an Existentialist because had had been reading The Prince at the same time he had been reading Nietzsche. We had laughed at that over the Dean's dinner-table as Remus' color rose. I wonder whether he read so much at the same time _all_ the time because he was trying to acquire something he felt he had missed out on in his own school (he never talked about that much) or whether he just liked reviewing the classics. Either way, his friends never tried to reach him at his flat because they all knew he'd be in the library, most likely with three open tomes in front of him.

When I knew him, Remus was young. However, Remus was NEVER really young. He always had years and years more than he had lived tagged on to his age, like an appendage. I know now that it was his secret, dragging behind him like a leaden weight, like old Jacob Marley and his chain of sins. Remus had no sins as such, but he did have that weight.

He might not have been young like you or I, but he was always graceful. No matter how battered and old his clothes looked, no matter how many elbows looked ready to give up the ghost and succumb to the superior powers of reality, he always looked good. Not just good, he looked beautiful. It's funny, but I always end up using words like that to describe him. He was scarred and poor, but he was beautiful.

I didn't speak to him that first time I saw him. I just observed him from across the street, but I was distracted again by the man with the newspaper and when I looked back, he had vanished again. I forgot it almost immediately, until I met Remus later that day face to face. It wasn't until years later that I recalled how extraordinary his first appearance had been and how unreal. It gave him a hint of un-reality, which was one of the reasons I liked him so much. Somehow, he never quite fit into the normal flow of university life. He was always a step or two out of synch, like he had just stepped out of a fairy tale or something. I don't know how to describe it. He defies description.

I actually did speak to him later that same day. He was sitting alone outside a cafe with a small cup of tea. The cafe happened to be one of my absolute favorites. (My time in Italy and France was spent almost entirely alternating between a few cafes and my classes.) I ended up sitting at the table next to him. He had a book laying upside down and open on the table in front of him, but he was staring absent-mindedly at the people in the street. Though I've never been the type to talk to complete strangers, I started up a conversation with him. I don't remember many of the specifics, but I started by mentioning the book he was reading. I didn't recognize either the title or the author. I'm fairly well read, if I do say so myself, but it might as well have been from another world.

"Oh, this?" he had said when I commented on the book, "This is a classic. From my mother's library." He rubbed a thumb up and down the spine lovingly. He always did get very attached to his books.

"I've never heard of it," I replied maybe a little bitterly. I was annoyed every time I met a book I hadn't read back then. He laughed like it was an inside joke between the two of us, though I am sure I hadn't been aware of anything funny.

"I don't suppose you would," he said. "Are you still in school?"

"Yes. I'm studying literature at university."

"Ah, well that explains that," he said knowingly. "An elusive book is quite aggravating." It was such a simple statement, but the full weight of it hit me deeply. The pursuit of knowledge is quite an acquisitioned hunt: we don't desire the knowledge itself half as much as we desire the having it. It made my annoyance of a moment before seem childish and stupid, which is what it had been. Remus always said things like that, simple and mind-boggling.

"I suppose so," I replied stupidly. How does one respond to a philosopher? We all end up like Socrates' interlocutors when we try, forgettable and unimportant.

There was a pause in the conversation after that. Remus sipped at his tea gingerly and ended up buying another pot, which he kindly shared. I didn't know then how poor Remus was, or I never would have imposed.

"Are you in school?" I asked at one point. There had been silly prattle between the silence and this question, but I have forgotten nearly all of it.

"No, but I'm thinking of going back. I studied some . . . unusual things in school," was his enigmatic response. I knew not to ask for specifics from him even then, before we became friends. His tone denied explanation. "I was thinking of studying Philosophy or Literature."

"Well, if you're interested, I could put in a good word for you at my university," I suggested. I knew absolutely nothing about his academic habits, but I just felt in my gut that he was the type who would not only be a credit to his university, but to me as well. I think he could see the selfishness in my suggestion, because he paused before answering, staring at his tea as he stirred it with a silver spoon.

"That would be nice," he said carefully. I hadn't even realized my impropriety until I heard the cautiousness in his voice. I would have blushed fiercely if I had been the blushing type.

I found out much later (like so much with Remus, it wasn't clear at the time, but years of friendship and that later revelation clear up so much) that Remus' original span in school had been the happiest time in his life. He wasn't cautious about my eagerness, he was cautious about himself trying to repeat that past gloriousness. I only ever met one of his friends from that time, but I understood from that one meeting what there was to be cautious about. When one has had a time like that, a glorious and unrepeatable time, it is always difficult to stop trying to re-create it. Remus almost always caught himself before he dragged himself through his memories again, but I know for a fact that he faltered at least once. But that is still to come. I have decided that this account will be chronological as much as it can be, despite the circular way you have to understand Remus. He doesn't stand alone in time, he reveals things slowly and you find yourself understanding things he said months earlier only by him implying something else that will leave you wondering for months more.

I'm getting off the track here, and I had resolved not to do that. What I wanted to show here was how odd my first meeting with Remus was, and how quickly we were thrown together. He did, in fact, end up attending my university. He rented a flat outside the city unlike the rest of the crowd. Most people fought over flats in the city or nearby the university, but I think Remus picked his little and ancient flat for the specific reason that it was in an almost entirely empty building, far off the beaten track. I didn't spend much time there, but he frequently visited me in town. He was still reclusive, though. He would disappear for days at a time. I think he often got into fights in bars or something, because he once showed up for a lecture covered in scratches and looking like the remains of an abused punching bag. The two images, one of Remus as overly-studious scholar and Remus as bar-room brawler, never quite meshed in my mind. I did see Remus almost get in a fight outside the library, but that's an entirely different story.

He had an eclectic schedule. He studied everything he could, whether he could get credit for it or not. If I remember correctly, he ended up getting a PhD in Comparative Literature. He compared something very modern and English (I think it was Joyce) and something very ancient and Chinese (I couldn't remember the specifics if you paid me too). He learned Italian faster than anyone I've ever met and didn't stop there. He already spoke Latin (he was _fluent_ in an archaic language) so he didn't have much trouble with the Romance languages. After Italian, he taught himself French and German. During our breaks, he would disappear to some remote part of some distant country and come back well nigh fluent and a couple dozen books heavier. I don't know what he did on these trips because I never asked. I didn't ask him much about himself. I knew that he would tell only what he wanted to tell and nothing more.

There was a time, three years into our acquaintance, when I saw his shell crack. It was one of those rare times when I was in his apartment. We had a bottle of some ridiculously cheap wine open and another couple already emptied bottles strewn around the room. I don't remember the reason for the night of excess, but we had both felt the need for some alcoholic oblivion. I think, for Remus, the need was constant and this was just one of the few times he indulged in it. He was always afraid of being too much anything, whether happy or sad, melancholy (his natural tendency when I knew him) or ecstatic.

During our last break, Remus had acquired some unusual scars across his face. He told us some wild story about a mountain in Norway with a bear, but it didn't feel true. It marked him, though, the same way whatever his secret he harbored marked him.

That night I was bold. I guess it was the influence of the wine coursing through my veins, but I unrepentantly asked him the most personal questions I had ever dared ask him. His answers were enigmatic, but I halfway pieced something together that night.

"What happened at your old school?" I asked with remarkable clarity. I always have had a very high tolerance for alcohol, but Remus was not so lucky.

"What d'you mean?" he slurred, suddenly not willing to look me in the eye.

"Well, you never talk about it, but I get the feeling there's something important there," I answered. "So what happened?"

"Nothing," he said, "S'nothing. Same thing as everyb'dy."

There was a pause, and I think Remus forgot that he had not answered the question because he continued as if he had. Or maybe he had answered me truthfully.

"I had some friends, ok? There were four of us, ok?" He waited expectantly for something but I had no idea what, so I just nodded. I don't know if that was what he had been waiting for, but it started him going again. "But now there s'not. There's just me." He wobbled four fingers to demonstrate his math. "See? One – dead." He closed one finger. "Two – dead." Another finger gone. "Three . . ." He stared at the finger. He repeated the number, still staring at the finger, and this time his voice cracked. I didn't know what to say or do.

"Sounds like you had a seriously rotten time," I said and he blinked at me and started laughing. I didn't get the joke then, so I just stared at him like he had gone mad.

"Yeah, a _seriously _rotten time," he agreed.

It might not sound like much as far as revelations go, but it was huge for Remus. The man had never so much as revealed his favorite color, so this was a big deal. Like I said, understanding Remus was a circuitous thing. You had to add together the information from months or years before and keep it in mind during future revelations, and then you might have a chance of understanding him. Possibly. This tidbit of information has to be added to another moment, the last time I ever spoke to him. But I swore to go chronologically, so I will keep that revelation for a bit.

In our last year, he disappeared. He had his PhD technically, but we hadn't had the ceremony yet. The last time I saw him before his disappearance, he was in the library, like always. He had a long roll of parchment open on the desk in front of him, I have no idea where he got it. I remember there was a tawny owl just sitting on the outside ledge of the window next to his chair, hooting quietly as if it expected something from him. If I had known how long it would be until the next time we spoke, I would have spared him a moment. However, I couldn't and so didn't. I was on my way out, late as usual. I gave him a wave. He looked up and gave me a weak smile, and I knew something was different. Something huge had changed and I made a mental note to ask him about it later. He looked like somebody had just told him he could go home after years of exile or something. He wasn't just happier than I had ever seen him, it was more than that. He looked completed, almost. Not quite, but closer than before. I don't know what the parchment was or where it came from, but I know it was important.

I've always remembered that brief moment because he was gone when I came back from my interview. It wasn't that odd for him to be gone, I've said he disappeared for days on end sometimes. But I knew something was different, it had been written all over his face. It bothered me that I couldn't put it together. I had known him for four and a half years at the same university and still there were things I just couldn't get. I hated that. Here I had spent hours and hours pondering the man for no other reason than that he was unfathomable and I was not much closer to comprehension. There was some fundamental aspect about him I could just never understand and it always bothered me. It still does.

Eight years later I ran into him again. I was living in Paris and teaching at a private school, but I had taken the day for a trip to London to visit an old friend, ironically, who cancelled last minute. I was left exploring the ins and outs of the city. I turned a corner and, just as magically as the first time I saw him, he just appeared. The only difference was that this time he wasn't alone. I understood in a wave what had been hanging over his head, what huge secret had gnawed at him, and why the thought of his school years must have been so painful. I saw him with a man.

The man was as unreal as Remus. He was so skinny I thought he might break if the wind blew too strongly, but at the same time he was fierce and unconquerable. I knew it from just looking at him. Remus looked years older, much more than the eight actual years that had passed, but also younger than I had ever seen him. I understood the strong emotion between them as easily as if they were a book and it was written on every page.

I called his name out and he jumped. I didn't know whether he would remember me, suddenly. He had never taken half the interest in me that I had in him. Not romantically, but I was fascinated by him and I still am. He did recognize me and I felt a flood of relief. It was as if some other-worldly presence took the time to know my name.

"This is Sirius," he said, pointing to the man next to him, and then he added with a wink, "Number three." I hadn't known before that whether he remembered that drunken night or not. Sirius didn't understand the reference, but he obviously wasn't going to press the point. I think it was a trust between them. You know how they say that you'll become better friends after you've had a good quarrel? It was like that with them, the closeness you can get only after a major falling out. At least, that's how it seemed to me.

Remus hadn't changed much in the interim. Eight years, I thought, would have made most people almost unrecognizable. I thought it had for me, but even juts seeing Remus stripped my pretensions away that little bit. He can always make you see yourself for what you are. He was still more concerned with the unseen than the seen, like his own appearance. His clothes were worn almost through and his face and arms still bore the marks of what I still assume to be his tendency for brawling. But he had changed in that one way which he hadn't quite reached when I saw him in the library with that parchment eight years before. Now he did look complete. Absolutely complete.

When they walked away together, I wondered how they had become friends in the first place. They were as different as night and day. Remus was all dusty grey-blonde and books and Sirius was all black leather and tattoos. Maybe Remus fought him once and they stayed friends afterwards. I don't know. I doubt I ever will. But I do know that Remus is as unusual as Sirius ever was, but less obviously so. He might not wear black leather or have any tattoos, but he' still well worth the time spent talking to him. Maybe he fascinates me because I really don't know much about him at all. I think I do sometimes because I caught the tail end of that one secret, but I think there are more. I think there are things I wouldn't understand even if he told me all his secrets. I know in my gut that both of them hail from some other world entirely, one that is as far out of my reach as the moon and as equally futile to chase as a dog chasing its own tail. I know it all, but every now and then I want to pretend that I am admitted into their elite club of uniqueness and magic, and that I understand the way it all works.

We all want to believe that we understand the magical people that wander through our lives. Especially when we can't.

**The End**

Soooo. . . questions? Isn't s/he a cute ickle Muggle with no idea what s/he is talking about? Please review, my tail could use a good ol' wag.


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